Cultural Castaways
by Strangely Tawny
Summary: This is just a series of one-shots revolving around the knights at different times in their lives. Mood and genre will vary, but there will be NO SLASH! Rating will also be flexible, but I will provide full warning at the beginning of each chapter.


**Hello everyone! I know, I can hear you all saying to one another, "What happened to her? Is she dead? Did the psychiatric ward catch up with her and take her back to her cell?" Well fear not, I was merely struggling with 'real life' issues, which took a long time to resolve themselves.**

**This is just a series of one-shots that revolve around our knights at different times in their lives, some are funny, some are sad, some are brutal and mean. I have no excuse, they're just ideas that weren't good enough to be featured on their own, so please consider them a disjointed series of sorts. But all feature at least one knight, promise.

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**Usual disclaimers: If I owned them, I'd be writing a kick-ass prequel right now while ogling the gorgeous knights and casting even MORE gorgeous knights to don leather clothes and wave swords in the air…. *sigh*….. **

**Warning: Language will vary – I shall endeavour to keep it as clean as possible, but with these knights, foul language is inevitably going to worm its way in on occasion.**

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**Little Foal Lost**

**Rating: T (for a rather traumatic birth scene)**

Bors was only twelve when it happened.

He had been riding back to his family on his father's horse from the next settlement, when the large chestnut mare unexpectedly stumbled and fell, throwing her rider and falling hard onto the frozen ground.

Bors hadn't yet attained the bulk and muscle that would characterise him later in life – he was only a boy and therefore was left breathless from the fall. Of course he had fallen off horses and ponies many, many times before, but this time something was different. He lay staring at the immeasurably blank grey sky and gulped in the freezing air as he waited for his ears to stop ringing. When they finally did, and the world came rushing back to tell him what was happening.

The horse was screaming. Bors scrambled upright and saw her lying on the ground, thrashing desperately. Making his way around her cautiously so that he wouldn't terrify her further, he made gentle cooing noises and nonsense words to sooth her. She turned frightened, white-ringed eyes on him, her nostrils flared wide and her neck drenched in sweat despite the freezing temperatures. Bors edged closer, avoiding eye-contact and assessing her limbs for damage. Strange, she seemed fine. He wasn't a horse doctor like his uncle, but something was definitely wrong. He moved closer still, holding out a mitten-clad hand to her nose.

"Sshh… I'm here. I'll try to help you." He said, careful to make her no promises he couldn't keep. Horses were creatures of truth and to tell one a lie was a dangerous, risky thing to do. They always remembered.

The mare was slightly comforted by the familiar presence of the small human and tried valiantly to rise once more, only for another jolt of agony to sear through her body. Something was very wrong. She kicked out and gave a heartfelt grunt. Whatever it was, it would have to go _now. _

Bors watched in horror as blood blossomed on the ground. He had his hands on the mare's neck, trying to give her whatever comfort or strength he could transmit through his hands.

Snow started to fall, gently, silently from the indifferent grey skies.

Something slipped out onto the frozen grass. It was slimy and steaming and bloody. The mare suddenly wrenched herself to her feet, as if suddenly repossessed of her limbs. Bors was left kneeling on the ground, his eyes not leaving the… the _thing_ on the ground. The mare circled him and then went back to sniff at the mess curiously. Then, with a swish of her gore-soaked tail, turned away shakily.

Bors crawled over to it, horrified yet fascinated in equal measure. There was nothing in his short life that could have prepared him for this. He peered at the thing, curiosity overriding disgust. Through the translucent sack he could see something… it was small, impossibly so for what it looked like. A tiny horse; with a perfect head, disproportionately small ears, an arching neck… little legs…

He heard a retching sound and realised with horror that _he _was the one making the sounds. Turning away quickly, his stomach ejected a mouthful of thin bile. He spat a couple of times and then chewed some clean frozen grass to clean his mouth out. A silent sob hitched in his chest.

That had been a little horse. A life had been lost before it had ever begun. He walked stiffly back to the mare who seemed strangely oblivious to the tragedy that had just occurred; she whickered at him softly, and pointed her nose home.

Bors, numb and trance-like, clambered back up into the saddle and let the mare take herself home.

When he got home, his father stepped out to greet his son, a smile playing on his lips. But seeing the blood-spattered horse and whey-faced child atop her, he immediately ran over.

"Son!"

Bors looked down at his father woodenly. Nothing much seemed real anymore. The little horse still lay under the perfect snow. Forever to sleep in the womb of its mother.

"Son! Bors!" His father repeated desperately. He'd never seen his ebullient child so still, so grave. Bors suddenly gave a small gulp and dismounted clumsily, practically falling out of the saddle. His father caught him and held him up by the shoulders.

"We both fell. It's dead. There was nothing I could do… I'm so sorry. So sorry." Bors gasped, hanging his head. His father gathered him into a tight embrace, and looked at his mare. Sure enough, he could see the tell-tale signs of a birth. But there was no foal at her feet, for she had only been with the stallion a few months before. Certainly not long enough for the foal to survive.

"Sshh, it's ok. It wasn't your fault." It wasn't anyone's fault. The gods decided it wasn't time for his plans to happen. Maybe next year, he'd try again.

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_Twelve years later…_

Bors' hands were shaking, though no one else would have known since he was gripping the stable door so tightly his knuckles were utterly white.

A mare was giving birth in the stall.

Wasn't even his horse, she belonged to Jols who was standing next to his burly friend, face as pale as the knight's knuckles. Jols had picked her up at a market as a skinny youngster, seemingly without potential. But under his skilful care she was transformed into a mare that had produced two of the most fabulous war horses to have ever walked this gods-forsaken land. One was Arthur's grey charger.

"Oh I hate this…" The head groom moaned, watching as the mare grunted quietly on the soft straw. It seemed to be taking forever. Both men watched in silence. Jols was in attendance in case things went wrong, and Bors was there because Vanora had threatened him with a clean and sober weeks' worth of evenings at the tavern if he didn't get over this ridiculous fear.

Bors was wondering if it had been a mistake to confide in his lover about his fears. True, he already had five children of his own, but when Gilly had arrived two weeks early, Bors nearly fainted clean away. And again when Four was born feet first, Dagonet had to practically carry his friend in to see Vanora when it was all over.

He was a fearless warrior, a formidable opponent in the Training Quadrants, master of horses, whores (until Vanora showed up) and drinking; afraid of nothing and louder than a drunken bullock. But Bors' Achilles heel was pregnancy and birth. He was terrified of the whole process and the other knights could always tell when Vanora was pregnant yet again by Bors' unnatural silence and sombre mood.

In reality, the birth happened rather quickly and Jols was ecstatically prancing about the tavern later that night like a proud father proclaiming the good news. The knights, whose people revered horses as semi-divine beings, all cheered at the news of a large and healthy filly and insisted on getting utterly smashed to celebrate. Bors arrived a few moments later, looking a decidedly healthier colour than he had been when Vanora had dragged him to the stables.

"Get me a drink." He mumbled, slumping down next to Gawain. "A very large one!" He amended loudly as Lancelot sent a flouncing barmaid off with their order.

"So, how was the little girl's entrance into this world?" Galahad asked blithely unaware of the warning looks being sent his way by the other knights. This was not the time to start talking about babies.

But Bors surprised them all. "Ah, not too bad." The burly knight admitted, a tinge of shame colouring his face and tone as Jols collapsed next to their table, already blind drunk. "All went well by the looks of it."

"So you didn't faint?" Lancelot asked in surprise.

"You weren't sick, were you?" Gawain ventured cautiously.

"What colour was the little one?" Tristan suddenly piped up from his corner. Although he couldn't understand Bors' strange squeamishness, he didn't think it helped his brother in arms to start teasing him about his only genuine fear – aside from Vanora on the rampage.

Bors seemed as surprised by the source of the question as the query. "Uhh… storm grey. Like yours actually."

Tristan nodded as he absent-mindedly hauled Jols onto the bench beside him. "She will be a powerful animal if she's anything like her mother."

The groom burbled something that sounded vaguely like 'so happy', but could have easily been 'no, crappy' just as Arthur appeared to see how his two erstwhile midwives were holding up.

Bors had already had three very large tankards of mead and was engrossed in a fourth while rambling drunkenly to Gawain about the beauties of parenthood.

Seeing his men all safely occupied for the night – with the possible exception of Galahad who was trying to score with one of the tavern's serving women with very limited progress – Arthur shared a private nod with the ever-sober Tristan and waved at the others who were all swaying happily by now.

Then Lancelot broke out into song. It was a Sarmatian song which was usually recited by the owner at the birth of a new horse. Jols, being a Britain, didn't understand that Lancelot was singing on his behalf, but bobbed his head in time as the other knights supplied vocal support – with various skill – and beat the tabletop with their knuckles rhythmically.

Musicians joined in and people started to dance as the knights sang away lustily in their corner. The original song over, they had started a humorous song involving a knight, a sword and two fair maidens from town, with lots of acting and laughing.

_Suddenly Sarmatia doesn't seem very far away at all,_ Arthur mused, watching from his corner.

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**Ok, first one down, a million more to go! No, seriously, if you thought that should be the only one to ever hit the web, let me know and I'll keep the rest to myself. **

**If you liked it then please review and let me know I'm doing a good job. **

**Thanks and happy reading! **

**~Tawny. **


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